The Blue Book (27 page)

Bunny agrees to be distracted by the thought.

All of us masters of distraction.

Mistresses.

Sounding louche is the least of my troubles.

Then Bunny moves on to being coy, enjoys it: ‘I don't believe we can describe him as staff, though. There are certain things one doesn't do in front of servants.' Her smile is coloured with Francis and how he would smile if he could hear her. ‘Or with them, for that matter.'

Derek is, meanwhile, sullen and clearly doesn't want to consider geriatric sex or listen to Bunny, but Beth pats his shoulder and goes in search of Francis –
because I would like to eat my dinner with a gentleman.

‘Oh, I'm not, you know.' Francis quietly tired when she finds him, his tray laden with fruit – especially watermelon – and cheese, his pockets full of crackers as usual. ‘No, I'm just me. And she puts up with the me-ness of me. And that's all right. That's very fine. No one else would.' A fingertip smudge of blue beneath each eye.

He's spent the week breaking his heart to be cheery, a jolly good fellow.

‘No, you'll always be a gentleman, Francis. It's how you're built.'

I don't give compliments. It's not a compliment, though, is it? He's a gent.

‘You're very kind. Thank you. Should we meet on any future occasions – not at sea, I don't just mean tomorrow – it would be my pleasure to try and not be disappointing.' He peers at the plates of watermelon – neat chap in a blazer and slacks, doing well for his age, only really needs glasses for reading –
but it's not his health that scares him
– a tray full of gifts for Bunny, treats, expressions of affection.

What will he do when they're pointless?

Some people have problems they did not make.

‘You're very good with each other.'

‘What?' Francis close to alarmed for an instant – he doesn't want a eulogy yet and she should have known better than to start one – but then he simply rolls his eyes. ‘We've had our moments. In both directions.' Then he stops, doesn't want to hear himself almost speaking his marriage away, out of existence. ‘And I'm sure we will again . . . Christ, it can make you bloody miserable.' He pauses again, picks an unthreatening meaning. ‘This
end of the voyage
bit, it's glum. Even though it's not as if you'll actually miss almost anyone you've met and you're going straight back home with whoever you came with – I mean, it's not an emotional time, or anything. It shouldn't be.' He rests his hand on her shoulder. ‘You, though – you have to come and see us. And I would recommend you do that almost as soon as we land. Unless you're busy, might be . . .' He stumbles when what he meant to be enthusiasm sounds as if matters are urgent and Beth ought to rush.

‘I will come and see you. Both of you.'

Because any word can work a spell and then Bunny will have to be there, still all right.

Francis gathering his poise again, summoning up mock-
serious nodding. ‘Excellent. And that's contractually
binding, you know – a promise made at sea, I'm sure that's something legal. Not the standard holiday fib. Let me give you our address.' And he moves deftly through his procedure for finding his card and presenting it. Beth suspects there was a time when having a business card was a big deal – it still pleases him. ‘Here. Don't lose it. And then you can come and stay – we're deep in the country now and it's too far to travel and not stay – and if you stay for a night, then you might as well make it longer . . . See?' He winks at her. ‘You were warned you'd be kidnapped . . .'

After this, both of them are aware they will need to joke and talk nonsense and not act as if anyone is dying or ever could: they will behave like human beings and make the very best of ignoring the long term.

Which could make me proud of us. I'm definitely proud of Francis.

So they improvise and she
forages
, as Francis puts it, with him in attendance, encouraging and advising and flirting in a way which implies mutual respect.

‘This is very wonderful, Beth. Your being here. And you've made the sun come out.' He steers her round to a window and proves his point. ‘More wonderful. Gorgeous.'

Out on the deck a jogger in a knitted hat fights his way past the glass and they watch him and then survey the restaurant and its quietly pornographic butter sculptures and carved fruits and busied heat lamps. The room seems to halt before it drops with another wave, rolls and sighs, and while it does Beth looks at Francis and tells him, ‘I'm not going to say goodbye. I would if I was going to, because it seems like the right time, but I'm not.' And she kisses his ear and he grins.

Then he kisses Beth's hand and when he raises his head again, the grin isn't hers any longer – it's for Bunny. ‘Very wonderful. Now, we're late and there will be rumours and alarms. And I have already been severely scolded for eyeing up the butter maidens. Dairy produce – it makes the sculptor overly focused on milk and its associated physical attributes. Come on.'

‘I can't think what you mean, Francis.'

‘And Bunny says neither can I.' Still grinning as they progress round to the table.

When he arrives, Francis kisses his wife and she frowns at him until he pantomimes being sly and then they both giggle and she kisses him back. ‘Did he give you any bother, Beth?'

‘No more than usual.' Beth sets down her offerings alongside Francis's careful array. Her efforts appear random: cold chicken, grated carrots, dumpling soup, a slice of pizza, watermelon, something with fish in a pink sauce – the kind of things she'd bring a stranger, trying to guess what he'd like.

When I no longer care about what Derek likes.

And what would be a suitable meal to share with a soon-to-be-ex-almost-future-husband? Sexual Etiquette For All Occasions – I think that's a lecture I missed.

Derek has decided to be baleful. ‘And what's the usual?' But then he seems unable to think of anything more to say, so he prods at his chicken suspiciously. He may have thought it might be impressive to refuse nourishment, but then Beth watches as four days of fasting kick in and he proceeds to eat everything she's brought him and then to insist on more. Otherwise he is mostly silent. Bunny, who has clearly been steadfast in trying to draw him out, makes a further attempt. ‘We live in Dorset.' Although she's beginning to tire.

‘Really.' Derek stokes in a forkful of risotto with a studied lack of grace. ‘We don't.'

Absolutely inexcusable.

Bunny was enjoying a little slice of cake, something pistachio and ornate, but now she doesn't touch it and only studies her hands and is too quickly too frail and Francis is on his feet and patently disgusted, breathless with it, incredulous.

Taking his hand, Beth stands with him. ‘I need some dessert. Francis, we'll search for dessert.' She leans into his shoulder. ‘Could we. Please.'

Francis unwilling to move, his hands getting angry and considering bad things – Beth can feel when his forearms twitch.

Bunny takes a breath, steadies and then tilts her face up to her husband's. ‘And a cup of tea, darling. I'm dry. If you wouldn't mind.' She gives him a tiny shake of her head, ‘Go on.' Which allows him to exhale and hook his arm in Beth's.

As they step away Beth hears Derek add, too loud, ‘And a cup for me.' And she has to work hard to keep Francis with her. He is trembling.

They make it as far as the tea urns before he dodges to stand in front of her, holds her quickly by both shoulders and then releases her, abashed. ‘Look, I know he's your—'

‘He's not.'

‘He's . . . ?'

‘Derek – he's not my anything. He was but he isn't and I haven't been able to tell him and I thought he would do, be all right . . . I thought he would be a safer, a saner . . . There's another . . . There is a man and Derek isn't him.'

‘Well, thank fuck for that, love – because he's a
tosser
. Sorry, but really – what a
fucking
arse.' Francis blinking and checking her, wary. He winces out a minute smile when she doesn't seem upset. ‘But . . . you know that.' Shakes his head, smiling more, glancing back at Bunny, watchful. ‘Sorry. Of course you do. You're, from what I know, extremely bright and attractive and . . . I'm sorry, it's none of my business, but I do get tired of seeing fantastic women with appalling men. It's like some form of blood sacrifice, self-harm. I can't be doing with it. Not that I'm any great catch or one to talk, but . . .' And his fingers remember their previous intentions, tighten momentarily.

‘I wish it was your business, Francis – you'd have made it all . . . neater, or . . . And I'm so sorry he hurt Bunny's feelings. I should never have brought him anywhere near her – or you – I was guessing I could manage him if you were around – and I am, I'm really sorry. And you can punch him if you want.'

Francis factual, ‘I do want.' And keen.

‘I know you want.'

‘I wasn't always a gentleman – it has grown on me over time, like moss. He is, in point of fact, lucky I do not
punch 'is fuckin' 'ead in
. As it were. Ask Bunny.' Enjoying his accent, a gleam of who he could still be.

Can imagine him – sharp and handy and Bunny fancying this dangerous young man. Not too scary, just right.

‘I will ask her. When we're alone. And I—'

He grips her shoulders again, this time slightly fierce. ‘Look, this isn't the time and I truly do not normally take advantage of being incredibly ancient to give advice. Nobody ever wants it, for a start – of course they don't:
it's advice.
But I have kids your age . . . No, I don't . . .' He's rueful for a beat. ‘I was waiting for you to contradict me there. My sons are in their twenties. Nice boys. And I wouldn't let them anywhere near you, you'd break them in half.' Another beat so that he can smile if Beth does, which she does. ‘No offence – in fact, I mean it as a compliment. But – back to the previous topic – if I'd had a daughter . . . you can say this kind of thing when you're
180
. . .' But he can't phrase this kind of thing in a way that suits him. ‘Oh, sod it. You and
that
doesn't work.' He cocks his head towards Derek, as if he wants him taken away. ‘You and whoever else seems to be excruciating, but at least you care . . . Obviously care . . . So maybe that would work. If he's whoever made you look the way you look today.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘This evening something is not the way it was with you – and it's the sort of difference that's . . . This is a being
180
thing again – seen it all . . . Almost all . . . Some of it . . . That is . . . In the words of the immortal Jimi –
Have you ever been experienced? Well, I have.
'

‘He likes Jimi. The other—'

‘The other chap. I know. It wouldn't be
Derek.
And the liking of Mr Hendrix is in the other chap's favour, of course . . . Not that we're necessarily discussing quite the same experience as Jimi's . . . Then again, it's all intoxication isn't it? Eventually . . .' But he'd prefer to be with Bunny – she's upset and he has been brave for her and will again – will have to be much braver – and he would like to be more helpful for Beth, but Bunny is Bunny and is everything. So he's brief: ‘Give it a go.' And then regrets it slightly. ‘See if you're kind to each other. Try it. Maybe. It won't kill you.' And he shows her his face, his unarmed, unprepared face – ‘Lots of other things will. For sure.' He gives her that, then fusses at his collar, brushes his shoulders free of invisible lint, retires into being jovial for her – and then stern. ‘Right . . .' The voice of a father with sons. ‘The tosser. I need a word with him.'

‘No, but—'

He won't actually punch him, though, will he?

Francis marching, bearing down and – despite a manifestly absorbing attack on a bowl of Thai green curry – Derek glances, falters, is dismayed and Francis tells him – carefully – ‘You are not going to eat any more. You are going to escort Elizabeth to the theatre. Don't act as if you've never heard of it. You're going to escort her courteously to the theatre and not take out how thoroughly disappointed you will soon feel with yourself on her or anyone else – you will not bother any of the staff.' Derek's head low and Francis maintaining his tone while his eyes look wicked and happy at Bunny and at Beth and he lies, ‘I've been in the service, I've seen your type.' For a breath, he is joyful with how unlikely this is and then pointed, sober. ‘You will watch the show. That's what a gentleman does with a lady.
You escort her
.'

Derek flounders his gaze up. He can't work Francis out, doesn't know who would actually win in a proper fight, because Francis is beginning to look quite useful and threatening and it would be just all upside-down to be beaten by an old man. Mainly Derek's face is turning scared, but he's also trying to present himself as polite, unwilling to contradict a senior citizen, ‘I don't, I—'

That was a bleat – definitely an unmanly sound.

I shouldn't be enjoying this.

I am, though.

Derek blinks. He is being humiliated.

But he hasn't a clue how much, how deeply and that's the part I'm not enjoying.

And Francis is right: the only place tenable for us will be the theatre. Where Derek can be diluted, where our position can be diluted, by an audience.